Clash of the Titans
Read Clash of the Titans Online
Authors: Alan Dean Foster
PLAYTHING OF THE GODS
He was Perseus, son of Zeus
and Danae, born in disgrace,
exiled to perish at sea,
fated to survive at heavenly
caprice—until he met his love,
defied the Gods and dared
to fight them or die.
She was Andromeda, enslaved by
her own beauty which beggared
the heavens and brought a
curse upon her city, her home,
her heart . . . until Perseus
accepted the Devil's own challenge,
answered the deadly riddle
and rode forth on his winged
horse Pegasus to claim his
love and to face the last of
the Titans, armed only with a
bloody hand, a witches' curse
and a severed head . . .
Books by
A
LAN
D
EAN
F
OSTER
Alien
Clash of the Titans
Outland
Krull
Spellsinger
Published by
WARNER BOOKS
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright © 1981 by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Film Co.
All rights reserved.
TM Indicates Trademark of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Film Co.
Warner Books, Inc.,
75 Rockerfeller Plaza,
New York, N.Y. 10019
A Warner Communications Company
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing; June, 1981
ISBN 0-446-96675-4
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For my nephew David,
One to grow with . . .
IIt doesn't matter who sees it, or when.
It doesn't matter who hears it, or when.
It doesn't matter who touches it, or when.
The ocean is forever a constant
To gods as well as men.
—Old Greek Fisherman's Song
It is said among tellers of tales from Macedonia to Mesopotamia, from Crete to Carthage, that when the gods invented turquoise they set the finest of it down in Persia and dissolved the rest in the sea men call the Aegean.
Turquoise can be darkened by aging and by acids. That unfortunate morning it seemed the Aegean itself had been darkened by anger. Boreas and his daughters had stirred the seas into a rare tempest. Normally placid waters twisted with fury and foam assaulted the land as water warred in an endless battle with the shoreline for topographic supremacy.
Oblivious to the mighty conflicts of nature, tiny red crabs scuttled in and out of waves large enough to crush whole ships, searching for food. To them the eternal conflict involving ocean and cliff was as vague as the fogs which often caressed this particularly rugged coast. To them a towering wave was no more than a convenient servant, delivering a fresh coating of tiny food-things with each new mighty roar.
While they did not fear the power of the waves, they hurried to scuttle aside the moment a more lethal force made its presence known. Racing sideways, they scrambled for favorite hiding places in the crevices and water-filled depressions eroded in the rocks.
One not quick enough was crushed to death. It was an idle execution performed solely to amuse the perpetrator. Purpose, then, was the difference between man and wave.
The crab's death was an omen of sorts, but no oracle was needed to predict the intentions of that grim-faced line of armored figures making its way up the damp slope leading to the cliffs. They were bent upon murder more monstrous. Wind slapped at their eyes. Rain trickled down inside helmets and breastplates, warm and clammy.
A few of the figures sported beards. The curly hair was usually cut close to the cheeks and to a point at the chin. Cloak did their best to keep rain from bodies. The enveloping material also served another purpose, for there were some among the line of marchers who felt misgivings about their task and were grateful for the concealment the cloaks provided.
Yet why should I worry, thought one of the dedicated soldiers? I only obey the orders of my king and priests. Was not this punishment we are carrying out decreed by them and approved by an offering to the gods? Did not the population of Argos cheer the decision, even hurling stones at the condemned along with the most vile insults? Why then, with such unanimity of support, should I be worried?
He stood a little taller, this soldier. His stride became more purposeful as he marched confident in the knowledge that the gods were with him and that he was Acting In The Sight.
Besides, he was only a common soldier, and even if he disagreed with the decision of the priests, what could a mere soldier do against his king?
The column continued to snake its way toward the crest of the cliffs overlooking the turbulent sea. Its significance was marked by two things that were carried.
One was a large wooden chest much like an oversized coffin. The intended function, if not the design, was similar. Six soldiers balanced it on their shoulders.
The other was a small wailing bundle carried gently by a young woman. Occasionally her haggard face would dart to right or left, seeking freedom but finding only armor and sword. The infant in her arms moaned soft and steady, his complaints lost in the throatier wail of the wind.
Once the woman broke to her right and tried to flee down the damp rocks. Two soldiers caught her easily before she'd traveled but a few steps. She could not run very fast, burdened as she was by the child and sore, blistered feet.
No comment was made concerning the pitiful aborted escape; not by the woman, not by the warriors guarding her. But they stayed closer to her now. The woman's face was wet and if was impossible to tell which tears fell from the sky which from her eyes.
The soldiers backed off slightly as they reached the edge of the precipice. The woman cuddled the infant tightly in her arms, trying to shield it from the elements. Below the granite overhang lay the roiling Aegean. Spume flecked the rocks. A curious gull cried insultingly from above, fighting the wind to retain its seat in the sky.
A soldier who was more than a king but perhaps less than a man stepped to the edge of the drop He had no fear of falling. Tyrants are sometimes as ignorant of fear as they are of everything else. Acrisius of Argos was such a tyrant.
He turned back to the column, satisfied that no daring fishing boat waited beyond the rocks to haul in more than mackerel. The sea was clean of man.
He was a tall man, was Acrisius. Sharp of features and turbid of thought. His Corinthian-style helmet left only his eyes and beard visible. Its horsehair crest rustled in the wind.
"Get it over with." muttered one of the waiting soldiers, but so softly so one else heard. His was the only remaining uncertainty within the troop. They had not been selected because of any tendency to question, any more than they had for squeamishness.
Acrisius made a gesture. The two soldiers who flanked the woman grabbed her arms. They started to drag her toward the large wooden chest.
Until now fear and defiance had combined to hold the woman silent. When the soldiers finally took hold of her, what remained of her nerves finally gave way. She began screaming and trying to break free. It would have been impossible even if she had not been holding the child.
"Father, no! By all the gods, spare me, or at least spare the boy. He is blameless. Your own flesh and blood, Father!"
Acrisius's reply was low and thick with indignation. It cut through the howl of the wind.
"I am Acrisius of Argos, of the royal line of Argos. Among that line I acknowledge no bastards, nor the mother of one. I will not break with tradition to do that now." His gaze rose, traveled past her.
"I see here no flesh and blood of mine. Once I had a daughter. That is gone from me now. Did you not hear the verdict of the people? You have shamed the entire city. No easy task for one woman."
"Is love so great a crime that it must be wiped out with death?" she pleaded. The soldiers were lifting her still struggling form into the wooden chest.
He spat toward her, the spittle landing on the hem of her gown and mixing quickly with the rain. "Lust is not love."
"Would you know the difference well enough Father, to be the judge?"
He shook his head once, violent and signifying nothing. Again he made a sign to the soldiers. The cover on the wooden chest was carefully lowered into position and then bolted down. From within came the muffled, now terrified screams of the child. They did not carry as far as Acrisius's heart.
He turned, raised his arms and declaimed to the storm.
"Bear witness, Great Zeus, and all you gods of High Olympus! I commit my daughter Danae and her bastard son Perseus to the sea. Her guilt and sin have brought shame to Argos. The people demand their justice, and I do my duty as their king. I, Acrisius the King, now purge her crime and restore my honor and the honor of the royal family.
"Her blood is not on my hands. It springs from her own actions and from the vileness that resided in her loins. From that moment she ceased to be Danae of Argos. From this moment she is no longer anything."
Lowering his arms, he stood silent for a moment, regarding the raging sea. Then he turned and signaled to the waiting soldiers.
"Now."
Six of them bent and lifted the heavy chest. They moved to the edge of the cliff. The chest had become unnervingly quiet, and the men were anxious to be rid of it. Swinging the container in gradually increasing arcs they finally launched it forward. It rose and hung for a moment in midair, a floating cradle of death.
Then it plunged downward to land with a violent splash in the foam. It bobbed to the surface where the waves began to toy with it. Soon it would smash to splinters on one of the jagged, spume-swept rocks below or be drawn beneath the surface.
